Ghosts of Rosings Park
by LadyJaeza
Summary: A one-shot depicting an afternoon with Lady Catherine.


The elderly woman sat hunched in the throne-like chair. Once she had been tall and sat with a regal air. Age had crumpled her spine even as it had twisted her fingers to scratching claws. The lace widow's cap that covered the fine gray wisps of hair sat askew, but she did not notice. The rich brocade gown, now twenty years out of fashion, hung awkwardly on her fragile frame. She spoke in a voice that carried tones of arrogance and peevishness in equal measure.

"Tell me, Mr. Collins, have you distributed the baskets for the poor as I requested?"

"Yes, Lady Catherine. They were most grateful for your kindness and gracious condescension. I am sure they will thank you for your bounty come Sunday at services."

"But you gave nothing to the Smith family? Nothing at all."

"I would never go against your instructions, Lady Catherine. I delivered the baskets exactly as you directed and left nothing at all for the Smith household." The portly man bowed repeatedly in her direction, dislodging the greasy strands of hair that normally lay across his forehead. They stuck up in the air like the comb of a rooster, an apt accompaniment for the quivering wattle of flesh that hung beneath his chin.

"Very good. Very good. One must always distinguish between the deserving poor and the undeserving."

"As you say, Lady Catherine. Your wisdom and munificence is an example to us all."

The withered woman turned to the divan by the fireplace.

"Are you warm enough, Anne? I would not have you catch a chill before Darcy arrives."

"Yes, Mama," said the pale figure wrapped in a shawl that almost hid her drawn features.

"He will be here soon to ask for your hand and unite our noble houses."

"That will be fine day indeed. Mr. Darcy is most fortunate to be able to wed the fair flower that is your daughter.

"Very true, Mr. Collins. Very true. Now, Anne, when he comes you must be sure to encourage him."

"Yes, Mama," came the faint answer.

"Have you prepared your sermon for this Sunday, Mr. Collins? You know I must review it for you."

"Yes, Lady Catherine. I will bring it to you for your review as always. I am your humble servant and am honored by your gracious condescension." His repeated bows made the strands of hair quiver and shake.

"Of course you are, Mr. Collins. See that you bring it with you tomorrow. You will need time to rewrite it to my specifications."

"As you say, Lady Catherine. Your attention to even the tiniest of details is well know."

"Indeed, Mr. Collins."

Further speech was interrupted by a knock at the door. The housekeeper stepped inside followed by a strong young woman in the dress of a maid.

"Are you ready to retire, Lady Catherine. We are here to help you to your room."

"Yes. Yes. It is time, is it not. Very well, help me up."

The maid and the housekeeper gently helped the shrunken woman to rise. She slowly left the room, leaning heavily against the maid on one side and the heavy cane the housekeeper had handed to her on the other. They slowly made their way up the broad staircase while the housekeeper remained in the drawing room, tidying the pillows on the divan and plumping the ancient velvet cushions on the large gilt-covered chair. She looked around the shabby room, decorated in old fabrics and filled gaudy furniture. The small breeze she always noticed at this time wafted around the room and was gone.

It was sad how the old woman had offended most of her family and now existed alone in these rooms. Only one of her nephews ever visited. He came to check on the estate and make sure the decisions she could no longer make were handled. Leaving the room she saw him just coming in from a ride around the estate, a middle-aged man who still carried the air and title of a soldier.

"How is she this evening?"

"Much the same as always. Molly has taken her up to her room for the night."

"I wonder how much longer she will last."

"It is hard to say, General Fitzwilliam. She finds her comfort in that old room, lost in her memories. She will not leave this life easily."

"Perhaps not."

He turned away and went off to the room he used when he visited Rosings Park.

The small breeze twisted and flitted away over the lawn and down the lane to the churchyard with its collection of gravestones. One who listened closely could hear a voice like an echo over the stone marked "William Collins". "Your gracious condescension" it repeated and then stilled. From another part of the graveyard by the stone marked "Anne De Bourgh" a soft whisper said "Yes, Mama" before lapsing into silence.

The spirits of the dead could sleep quietly for another night. They would not be needed again until the morning.


End file.
